The ticking hands of time. Narrative Poetry
Memories ripened like a glass of sweet, aged blackberry wine
I sometimes wonder what I would remember if I could actually roll back the moving hands of time?
Would I see events of old in a brand new light, or would I remember they were real? I owned them and they were memories of mine.
Memories ripened like a glass of sweet, aged blackberry wine.
Another year, another spring,
An abundance of tomorrows, what will they bring?
Will I be happy and content with enthusiastic cheer,
Or will I refuse and diligently insist on looking back to yesteryear?
That was embedded with feelings of regret,
Or will I look forward to an eventful tomorrow, refusing to hold on with bouts of sorrowful fret?
I surmise I will surprise myself and look ahead,
Expecting to see beautiful early morning glories caressed by the early morning dew.
Will my psyche allow me to see an abundance or a measly few?
Oh yes, all memories are stored and kept guarded in the keepsake box that lingers still,
But perhaps it's only a matter of time the memories fade and become invisible, nil.
Truthfully I'm looking forward to a new and exciting beginning,
Funny how a beautiful sunny day stirs my subconscious to new possibilities in life's second inning.
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